


the manic rhapsody

by naughtyskeletonpuns (badskeletonpuns)



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Biting, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Squirting, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, but like LOOSELY and they're both into it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28328199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badskeletonpuns/pseuds/naughtyskeletonpuns
Summary: Written for the prompt of "Jazz is the young Duke of Polyhex, doing his best to keep his country together but he's so tired. Seeing his distress, the Duke of Praxus offers his son Prowl as a concubine to give Jazz some relief. Turns out Prowl is a very toppy mech who blows Jazz's back out on their wedding night. Both are deliriously happy!" If you're looking for anything other than smut, this is... not the place for you, LOL.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl (Transformers)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 79
Collections: Secret Spark Exchange 2020





	the manic rhapsody

**Author's Note:**

> happy secret spark posting day, LadyMythos! i hope you enjoy these two having a _lovely_ time together :3

Jazz hadn’t had expectations, not exactly. He’d tried not to, had wanted to give the handsome Praxian a chance to be himself without the weight of all a Duke might expect of him. 

That aside, there were certain things he thought would be likely from the look of his new ‘friend.’ From the carefully held door-wings, draped with thin platinum chains and tiny diamonds, to the small, polite smile, it was all very… well-behaved. The enforcer paint job was a surprise, but that was probably just coded in from his sire. 

Not that there was anything  _ wrong _ with well-behaved or that Jazz wouldn’t enjoy fragging the pretty mech, it was just that it might not be the stress relief the Praxian Duke had intended when he’d offered his son Prowl as a concubine.

Jazz had never been more delighted to be proven so thoroughly wrong. 

“Yeah, that’s it, mech, keep going,” Jazz panted, half-muffled by a pillow. He was on his hands and knees—well, he’d started on his hands and knees. Now Jazz lay chest pressed to the berth and knees splayed on either side of Prowl’s thighs while Prowl drove his spike into him. Speaking of those sleek silver thighs, Jazz had  _ not _ gotten to appreciate them enough yet. He’d have to talk Prowl into letting him get his mouth on them, or maybe just ride one of them to overload? 

Jazz wasn’t particularly picky. 

Prowl thrust in and stayed there, leaning over Jazz’s prone form to murmur into his audials. “What was that, Jazz?” 

His spike lit up every node in Jazz’s valve with bright charge, and it was all Jazz could do to sputter out something barely comprehensible as begging for more. Instead of continuing to move, Prowl remained where he was. He only moved his hips in small circles, grinding his spike in deeper. Every stroke sent more electricity through Jazz’s array.

“I’d like to be sure I’m performing as best I can,” Prowl continued. “So I need you need to tell me  _ exactly _ what you want.” 

Jazz moaned, arching his aft up higher in lieu of speaking. Primus, he could hardly believe this… he wasn’t sure what to call it—professionality?—was working for him so well. Evidence spoke louder than expectations, though, and the lubricant dripping from his array and charge crackling across his plating was practically shouting how much this was doing it for him. 

Prowl stilled completely. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear you.” 

Before he could say anything, Jazz had to reboot his vocalizers. His first words came out as a burst of static, clearing up into pleas for Prowl to keep moving, to keep touching him, keep fragging him,  _ anything. _ “Please, Prowl, more,” he begged. 

Prowl caressed the rim of one of Jazz’s shoulder tires, carefully thumbing over the joining of metal and rubber before grabbing a handful of tire and  _ squeezing. _ There weren’t even a huge amount of sensors there—after all, Jazz did have to drive on those—but the possessiveness of the grasp had Jazz moaning and writhing under his lover. 

And when Prowl tucked his fingers under the wheel well, into the gaps between cables and wiring, there were  _ definitely  _ sensors there. Prowl rubbed circles over finely-tuned nodes until Jazz could hardly tell which way was up. 

“Don’t stop!” he got out between bursts of static, before Prowl could ask if Jazz was enjoying this and risking him stopping until Jazz gave the go-ahead. 

“That’s good, tell me what you want,” Prowl said. He leaned over till he was pressed against Jazz’s back, bumper to groin, rutting into Jazz while still fondling the sensors of his shoulder armor. “Would you like me to touch your spike, Jazz?”

“Please,” Jazz moaned. 

Prowl sat back to keep his balance, continuing to frag Jazz, never missing a beat. “Good boy,” he murmured, while he wrapped one hand around the base of Jazz’s spike and stroked along the length of it. 

That was all it took for Jazz, whose knees went out from under him as he overloaded under Prowl. His valve flexed around the hot length of Prowl’s spike as it nudged his ceiling node; his spike released transfluid all over Prowl’s steady hand and the berth beneath them. Prowl caught Jazz’s hips, hauling him backwards and keeping him on Prowl’s spike. 

He pulled Jazz up till he was in Prowl’s lap, spike still hot and solid within him. 

“Please confirm you’re ready for more,” Prowl said, and the low rumble of his engine all along Jazz’s spinal struts was intoxicating. 

“Mmm, yeah, but I think you should ask me again anyway.” Jazz couldn’t stop himself from humming a tune, something to weave in and out of the rhythm of Prowl’s engine thrumming behind him. “Feels good.”  _ Everything  _ felt good. Prowl’s frame was heated and ready beneath him, and both mechs’ armor plates were practically buzzing with electricity. The pleasure echoed between them, driving their charge ever higher. 

Prowl hooked his chin over Jazz’s shoulder, watching himself slide in and out of Jazz’s slick valve. “Do you like it when I talk to you? I could tell you how lovely you are, taking my spike.” He kissed the side of Jazz’s neck, then bit it, catching sharp denta on a neck cable for a fraction of a klik. “It would be the truth. The biolights on your valve are so bright; between your charge and your slick I can’t be certain what’s making them shine more.” 

Jazz’s engine whined as he pushed himself into high gear, still barely able to squirm on Prowl’s spike with the way he was being held. “Yes, yes, I love it!” 

Prowl bit him again, digging his denta into Jazz’s collar faring hard enough to sting. He licked over the wounds, rolling his spike up with an infuriatingly steady rhythm. Regular as a metronome, just fast enough to have Jazz venting hard trying to keep up with the feeling but not quite enough to send him into overload again. 

The charge on their berth just kept building. Blue sparks flew from the places their armor came into contact, each one a tiny burst of even more power. The room itself seemed tinted blue with the overcharge fritzing at the corners of Jazz’s visor. He opened his mouth to beg Prowl for more, but all that came out was a burst of static.  _ Please, _ he commed directly to his lover.  _ More, please.  _

“Still not enough?” Prowl asked, and the fact that it was a genuine question rather than a tease just sent Jazz further towards that dizzy edge. 

They were nearly the same height, but Prowl picked Jazz up off his spike like he was nothing. Jazz keened wordlessly, reaching for Prowl with a rev of his engine. 

“Hush, Jazz. You’ll get what you need,” Prowl promised. “So beautiful, needy like this.” He laid Jazz out onto his back on their berth, tucking a bolster pillow under his hips to angle them up before hilting himself in Jazz’s valve once more. The stretch, after even moments of emptiness, was almost better than before. 

“I knew we would be a good match, but even I had not predicted how we would fit together like this.” He leaned over Jazz, arms braced on the berth to either side of Jazz’s helm. Every time Prowl thrust in, Jazz slid up the berth a little with the force of it. “Tell me what you need.” 

Jazz just moaned, reaching between them to feel the place where they connected, where the metal plates of Prowl’s spike met the slick mesh of Jazz’s valve. He was so close, so full of feeling, of Prowl, of  _ everything.  _ He couldn’t think of anything but this blind sensation. Prowl’s spike was perfect, hitting nodes Jazz couldn’t get with his own fingers. It was hot under Jazz’s hands, slick with Prowl’s prefluid and Jazz’s lubricant. 

As he explored the base of Prowl’s spike and its housing, Jazz almost accidentally rubbed over his own anterior node. Every strut in Jazz’s body went tense, his valve fittings spiralling down around Prowl’s spike. 

In time with him, Prowl thrust deep in one last time and stayed there, panting through his own overload. His transfluid was even hotter than his spike, transferring charge between every node on both mechs’ arrays. 

Jazz fell to pieces, valve cycling down and spraying hydraulic fluid and lubricant all over everything. He sobbed Prowl’s name as aftershocks rocketed through his frame, writhing around where Prowl was still inside him. 

Once Jazz had his vents back under control, Prowl slowly pulled out. A mess of fluids followed; transfluid, hydraulics, and lubricant all a shimmering mess. 

“How are you feeling, Jazz?”

Jazz gave a shaky thumbs-up.  _ Perfect, _ he commed to Prowl.  _ Let you know just how much once my vocalizers reboot. _

Prowl shifted down, kneeling between Jazz’s calves. “Perhaps while we wait for that, I could get started cleaning you up?” He smiled—that same small, polite smile, but this time Jazz knew what was behind that smile. “I don’t have cleaning supplies, but I’m sure I could make something work.” 

Jazz threw his arm over his face and nodded. He couldn't wait for his systems to reboot, he had to force out through bursts of static, “Mech, if y’don’t eat me out right now, I might cry.” 

It was so good to be wrong sometimes. This, everything with Prowl, was the best stress relief Jazz had ever had, and then some. 

**Author's Note:**

> i've never written either of those two before, so i hope it's good!!! :D i did my best, it was very fun. thanks to all who read!!! if you liked anything about it in particular, feel free to let me know!


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